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I was not gonna sit back and watch it happen.
I wasn’t gonna allow myself to love this man that beat up my mother every night.
Ofcause I was gonna try to stop all his fists flying to her face.
I was not gonna be silenced and just weep in my room.
That’s not who I am.

I do not sit by and let my own mother be abused in the other room. While this man forces her to give him her whole salary, so that he can take it to his witch doctors. when all she wanted was to buy food for her children

Not me….I don’t keep quiet to men like my father.
I do not sit back and watch it happen year after year, day after day with the hopes that he will someday change.
Decades later and he’s still the same.
Now he brags about his 10 girlfriends to my 16year sister.

This man doesn’t deserve my respect and/or anyone’s respect.

I will not sit back and watch….I will share my story because I know these men are being protected by their communities, families and the actual victims they’ve victimised.

I will not sit back and watch in silence just because you are related to me. In cases like these, relative is just the biology, the chromosomes that have to be for genetic connection.
I will not sit back and watch it happen.
That is not who I am.

I am a caring person.
And caring doesn’t allow me to sit back and watch in silence.

“Can I have some water, I am dry,” said Billy during the performance. Mahlatsi rushed to get him water. “Water-breaks,” uttered Billy in undeniable satisfaction. “Mother’s water breaks and I was born…” he continued.

On the 14th of June, I had the pleasure of going to Plat4orm in Newtown to see a theatrical piece written and performed by Billy Edward Langa and directed by Mahlatsi DBoy Mokgonyana. I was immediately astounded by Billy’s exceptionally detailed movement on stage; how every step and every turn looks perfect, like choreographed, but not quite, because it just looks effortless. His transition from ape to man entirely using his body revealed him as an incredible storytelling dancer. Among other things, Billy has the gift of inviting his audiences into his train of thoughts, carry and challenge them.

Tswalo is a lyrical prose, poetry and physical storytelling entwine to interrogate the rules that govern life on earth, those such as power, creation, truth, connection, intuition – the performers’ expression of his ‘source’. Being a spiritual quest that gives the audiences the baton to walk through their own paradigm of ontology, Tswalo’s poetry, prose and stories furnish us with the necessary tools into a deep meditation. It undoubtedly begs the question (or theory) of being, becoming and unbecoming. Indeed, when Billy says he remembers being in his mother’s womb, he leaves you no choice but to squeeze the texture of his work and ask yourself what is being said here, while you’re catching up with his magnificent poetry.

Produced in collaboration with The Movement RSA incubation program for networks, the team is currently in Cape Town for the Alexander Bar Theatre run before they head to the UK. It’s no wonder SHCC’s director, Tricia Sibbons, describes the piece as “a meditation on the important things in life in a spellbinding hour.” Tswalo demands that you reflect on your own life and ask yourself why you are here.

For director Mahlatsi, this was an exciting journey to reconstruct poetry and deconstruct orthodox chronology in telling stories. This reminded me of words from one director I have worked with, who always emphasized, “Life is not linear. Shit happen abruptly, nonsensically and chaotically. We always have to carve the pieces back together ourselves.”

“There’s no clear beginning, middle and end in this piece – or at least when we planned it, we didn’t have that in mind. This is an experiment,” Mahlatsi said during the Q and As.

One wonders if such themes are the grapple of 2016’s black youth, to which Mahlatsi emphasizes the importance of re-imagining ourselves, hence the graceful imagery of romance between a black mother and father.

“Most of us grew up without our fathers; so Billy and I had to imagine the black family unbroken. Re-imagine our fathers being there and taking our mothers out. We had to imagine our fathers affording to order even water in a restaurant,” said Mahlatsi, to which the whole room bursted into laughter.

This observation concludes the play’s relevance at a time when young black men are remembering their fathers’ hair-cuts and black women remembering their grandmothers’ expression in fashion, the current natural hair explosion making the rounds and the re-writing of the narrative. This work dares us to tap into this lane of memory even further; to an infinite union and love between the black man and woman; between ourselves and God; between ourselves and ourselves; to go beyond everything and find the likeliness in all of us.

Asked about some glaring moments of the piece and what his intention was, Billy said he believes he was with God one day and said to Him, “chap, can you send me down there?” God chose for him a family and everyone who was going to lead him to his divine mission, but when he got here, there was much more to preoccupy him that he forgot why he came here. Now, in this piece, he is going back to the source (tswalo), hence he is on a trance with all the enmity abyss, but can still transcend to the spiritual world to recollect.

From this play, I found that aligning myself with my “purpose” is not really a task of learning new things, but rather that of remembering what I am already. Wow – what a time to be alive!

In the past five years, I have come across many brilliant art works that, for me, deserve to be further explored in African studies, institution, community centres, theatres and public spaces. They deserve to be the lingua franca of the day.

This is one of my ultimate goals, because I think the disjuncture between my career and university was that I always had to motivate my arguments with old texts whose relevance had not been properly dissected into my narrative as a black woman. Admittedly, one of the caps I wear is that of academia, but, I have always wanted to study text from now and here; from artists who may not even be able to articulate the intellectual symbols of their works.

In Port Elizabeth, one of the early works I had the pleasure of seeing was Xolisa Ngubelanga’s Dinner With Bantu, a play flawlessly written by this eloquent and unapologetically black consciousness patriot. SABC News discussed the play as work that zooms into the spirit of black consciousness; the cultural and political revival of the oppressed people . . . nelson Mandela prepares his famous table to invite Steve Biko & Chris Hani.

This play was important to me in the black consciousness narrative because it somewhat paid homage to Biko’s concepts but did not die there in the past, it charged the spectator to take the baton after Biko and continue it. In fact, SABC News quoted Xabiso Zweni, the artistic director of the play saying, “at the end of the day, it is about selflessness, in whatever way we can give to our communities,” and Anele Peni , who plays Steve Biko said he thinks the play is important because the youth of South Africa is not living up to Steve Biko’s ideas and teachings.

I personally agree and disagree with Peni’s statement because I think people like them (in their work) epitomise those ideas. At this moment, let’s refresh our memories of what he says we are not following; let’s remind ourselves of what Biko said in describing the basic tenants of black consciousness. In “I Write What I Like,” Biko writes “It [black consciousness] seeks to infuse the black community with a new-found pride in themselves, their efforts, their value-systems, their culture, their religion and their outlook on life.”

What this means for me, in relation to Dinner with Bantu, is that the play’s relevance is insurmountable because it also unpacks a sense of self-inflicted slavery and the need to have a “king” or a “leader,” an attitude that Ngubelanga was reversing here as he said this play is a slap across the face to build a more pro-active black community.

Much relevant to today’s youth, in Cape Town, I came across many artists whose content also uplifted this momentum, such as a poem by Khulani Maseko under the title, Kush.

Adapted from the famous book, Capitalist Nigger by Chika Onyeani, the poem deals with the path to economic freedom for the colonised & neo-colonised black people in Africa or as Onyeani refers to it, “The Road To Success.” With bold and true docunstructive methods of the façade of freedom that we, Africans, think we have, Maseko says;

“Doesn’t freedom mean you don’t depend on anyone for anything? Well, we depend on everyone for everything.”

[Maseko, Kush, 2013]

He does something interesting which Sean-Paul Sartre recognises when writing a preface on Fanon; addresses black people and only black people; at no point does he speak to Europe. His is to equip black people with what he thinks can drive them forward, and as Capitalist Nigger suggests, it is a local economy or what is known as the spider-web doctrine.

“There’s no need to re-invent a new Will. Take from them what they took from us,” Maseko says and again, leading me to reminisce on the fact that Fanon who was writing in the 60s said that the process of decolonisation is that of complete disorder.

But also, you realise that Maseko’s approach does somewhat reflect Onyeani’s statements under “Ruthlessness In The Pursuit Of Excellence” where he defines the capitalist nigger to be ruthless. “He [the capitalist nigger] must reflect ruthlessness in his pursuit of excellence in his drive towards achieving his goal of being an economic warrior,” and also states that there needs to be an attitude shift in Africans; less whining and more taking. “Richard Branson doesn’t whine and beg for what he wants. He takes it,” says Onyeani.

Just as well, Maseko, who I know not to drink alcohol personally, speaks about alcohol in his poem; interestingly, he does not tell black people not to drink, he tells them to start manufacturing their own alcohol.

Onyeani and Maseko deal with the failure of leadership in Africa, which cannot be denied and which has made progress slow. In this respect, a play called Book of Rebellations (a play on Book of Revelations) at the Artscape Theatre felt to me like a chapter from the Wretched of the earth by Frantz Fanon, specifically, The Pitfalls of National Consciousness. The play is described by Media Update as an “allegorical fantasy . . . [telling a story of Kanana, a place under the rulership of Tlhogo Moimele], a dictator who is deaf to the sufferings of his people.”

Written by Monageng ‘Vice’ Motshabi and Kgafela Oa Magogodi, the play undertakes a mission to display the moral decay in leadership, which neglects people and only favours one man – the leader (and those closest to him).

It’s really the typical sad African leadership story where before independence is gained, the leader is for the people and fully understands their struggles until greed and power for the sake of power creeps in. The brilliance of the play is in how these moments in question are articulated by its musical rendition flawlessly synchronised with the pace and rhythm of the play itself and the actors do a superb job.

The dire condition of the people (who are completely neglected) reminds me of The Beautyful Ones Are Not Yet Born by Ayi Kwei Armah, who was writing against the backdrop of Krumah’s leadership in Ghana. In this case, are writers not in an intergenerational conversation?

Both texts are thoroughly explicit in the abyss of society, but also give hope by following the narrative of a few characters that still stand for what is right.

Taking these discussions to consideration, as a creator and spectator of the arts, it always puzzles me that during real talks with black artists, one of the things that always emerge is the jealousy and/or pull-him/her-down syndrome.

Even if you don’t witness it yourself, black artists’ grievances include such politics and that of never having one’s community endorse them. It seems as though there is still the general misconception that if it is black, it is not worthy of accreditation and needs a white face to verify it or for people to believe in it.

A human nature characteristic, I suppose, but I always feel that the progress of black artists is sacrificed and loses the black unity niche that their art unpacks and discusses. Shouldn’t there be some kind of intersection between what one says in the public and what one practises personally, or am I being too emotional about this?

I believe that the most sensitive citizens in the world are artists, for they cannot bear the agony of not speaking the truth unapologetically, but is this truth sometimes left on page and stage to manifest for others and not for the artist? In black consciousness work, what lies beyond the art? If we have acknowledged Onyeani’s theories about the capitalist nigger, why would black people be the first to slash DJ Sbu’s path to capitalism and wealth? Is that not the decolonisation and revolution we always utter on stage? And, those in the positions of power in the arts also often represent the leadership that Book of Rebellations speaks about. The patriarchal structure of the industry means that some producers sleep with different women (mostly black) selling them dreams. This has led to the biggest crack in black consciousness because it has put black women and black men at the opposite sides of the fence. They no longer speak the same language. Where is the unity here? Why are funds that are supposed to build black art in the most deprived of communities being embezzled by black leaders?

Lastly, how do we carry these values forward may be found in these brilliant works of art and the practicality of what is carried within them.

I tried something a little different in the Arts Administration class for Current State of Poetry in Johannesburg by having dialogues about the arts as an industry. In this clip, Nolwazi Tusini speaks about being an artist and the idea of a current narrative. Her take is if you see yourself as a business, then compromise is inevitable.

It’s been three years since this video was created under Radikal Xpression, and more and more, I am finding the black female narrative to be very pivotal in all spheres of society, especially one that is fully owned by black women.

Being greeted with a can of Mofaya energy drink as you enter was confirmation that the energy levels of the audience and that of the poets will be at a definite high and the malangabs will indeed be felt as each poet took to the mic.

This was a different kind of slam which I realised as each poet was granted an opportunity to show confidence in their art and their given performance as they had to decide whether they did well or bad in each round regardless of what the judges’ scores said.

Judge shouts score: 3; 0; 5; 3…….

Haaibo, mara what is wrong with this judge (find out name) me and my friends started questioning ourselves. Did she even hear when Katlego said ‘’ I am wounded Braille, do not touch me to read me cause it hurts’’.

Haai if that is not a malangabs line please tell me what is.

We experienced heat, laughter, sadness, anger, brokenness, blackness and fire on stage and thanks to the Mofaya energy drinks that everyone received at the entrance, the theatre was not short of energy on Saturday 02 April 2016 at the CSP slam and the one on one slam which takes place at the Johannesburg theatre which has quickly build quite a reputation for itself ever since its birth.

With more than 5 standing ovations from the audience and loud screams it was evidently clear that the malangabs were vuthad on that stage.

As we saw Ashley and Kano going head to head as they slammed for the top spot of being this month’s queen of the mic… When Kano made me weak when she said ‘’they went from coughing out smoke to spitting out balls of fire’’ and Ashley killed me when she said ‘’I put sand over my daughter so I don’t drown her accidentally- I hate accidents ‘’ and just like that she had won the slam with me and indeed she was crowned queen of the mic with a close score of 30 points and Kano at 29….close call Ashley.

A few minutes into the one on one I was already sitting with a dilemma of having to choose between Africa and Mbongeni, with Africa having been my personal favourite at the beginning mostly cause of his skin and looks and other stuff when Mbongeni decided to sweep me off my seat unexpectedly and made me sing a different tune.

As they reached the 6th round which happens to be Lil Hussil’s( also known as Vusimusi Phakathi ) favourite round the two made me want to scream my lungs out as Africa was leading and aiding Mbongeni into some poetic initiation ceremony, how the two were inhaling and spitting out fire balls of poetry…Neho tshesa (it was burning hot) .

It was evidently clear that Mbongeni came to this slam for one reason and with one reason- to educate the masses and education is what the masses received from him..

‘’RHAAI RHAAI RHAAI RHAAI’’ and this is how I will always remember Mbongeni as he went on to claim victory for the CSP one on one slam not even Africa’s beautiful skin will make me forget Mbongeni.

On this day, the 20th of March, the day before Human Rights Day, was the day team Martyrs relived the Sharpville massacre. This was the day where we, team Martyrs, really lived up to our name. We literally died for our art.

But before such a brutal act was committed at the Cas Cavadioo Studio, Lil Hustle, aka Vuz’muzi Phakathi, had to introduce team Martyr and team Warriors to the stage for some poyemtry. Yeah, I said it! POYEMTRY!!! The first game that was played was called “Statue Garden” (at least that’s what I think it was called… ) where one from each team had to make an improv statue and another one of each had to produce a collaborative poem about the statue. Unfortunately, team Warriors won that game by the vote of the audience. (I’ll say it once and I’ll say it again, the audience was bribed. We were cheated in that game!!!). Since we lost in this game, the host invited three members of the audience to try and beat team Warriors. They too failed! Team Warriors were on a roll.

The next game, Alphabets, had us shivering. Only one was good at this game. In this game, each member of the opposite team must recite a line of poetry starting each line with the next character of the alphabet, starting at ‘a’, and if one of them chokes, the choker can tag the member of his team behind him. Here, I have to admit, we got thrashed, hard! We got eliminated one by one. It was a terrible sight. Once again, the host called for three audience members to save the day. They actually did better than us. (*cries softly*). Team Warriors were on a warpath and we were becoming roadkill.

The last game, the Shelington, had one member of each team throwing words at each other until one chokes. As they are throwing these words, another one member of each member is catching these words and must produce an improv poem that is aimed at courting an audience member. Now I must say, team Martyrs’ word throwers were dismantling team Warriors word throwers however they were just great at shelling the audience members, yong! As a result they won. (I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again, those audience members were bribed!!!). What a landslide loss. Three – Nil to the Warriors. What a massacre!

And then there was silence…

After a two hour fun-filled improv poetry games, where team Warriors demonstrated the Sharpville massacre, the open mic session began.

Clear opened the platform with a piece every poet and poetry lover alike could relate to, a piece on being addicted to this thing called Spoken Word. Then Thobani changed the whole mood of the floor with a man abuse poem. ‘… In this house, we use the Richter Scale to measure time…’. WHAT!!! Next, was Dr Thando with a piece on Rape. The most amazing and brave thing about her is that she wrote from her own experience. Yes, this courageous woman was raped four years ago. The tone of the open mic was carried by Zizipho, aka FLAMES (you did not hear that name from me. Between you and me, she hates it). Her piece, I am also Afraid of the Dark was just breath taking. Sibulelo’s recipe on how to cook a foreigner left an awful taste in one’s mouth and how can I forget our PTA guest reading a piece on the absurdity of religion.

Mara, batho! Kekopha se fila!!! Mr. Rammusi (he deserves to be called that merely for that piece), or better known as Katlego delivered a piece about the injustices of our fathers in this society. God, you should’ve heard that masterpiece!!! Then Dr. Sarah Godsell gave the audience an amazing and insightful piece about the effects rape has on a feminist woman.

The floor was closed by the ever elegant, oh so classy MoAfrika with a Sepedi-English piece about rape.

I might have done an injustice to everyone who stepped up on that stage by not recalling every detail of the day, but each soldier who put their lives and words on that stage moved and shook my soul that day. Never have I felt such a range of emotions as the feelings that were aroused on that day.

I am pretty sure that I speak for everyone in that venue when I say, Thank you for those brave words!

As an avid lover of the arts- a reader and a writer, a religious film watcher, gallery walker, amateur photographer- I once found poetry to quench a specific, grave thirst in my soul. I was twelve years old, and I had discovered Sylvia Plath and Chinua Achebe. I did not know I had a thirst, until I had found the cure for it. I started searching out our little library at school, read every single book that I found. And then when I had no more books to read and my heart was still yearning, I took my pencil to a book and willed myself to do it. I wrote a complex sonnet about ice cream.

I returned to South Africa at the end of the year I turned twelve. Here, I found, I was more displaced than I was in Lesotho. I spoke both my English and Sesotho with foreign accents. I had the manner of an English Rose and the esteem of a churchman’s widowed mistress. There was nothing for me here, save a brand new library and books I would run to for cover, whenever I needed it. And I needed it frequently. And then I finished the books but I was still empty, this time needing for more than Mushrooms, Sonnet 116 and scripture. I needed affirmation. I needed to know that my beautiful was beautiful even if it did not look like all the images on the television. I needed to know that my love was love, that I was no freak for sharing my first kiss with another English Rose. I could not find any of those things in my high school’s devastatingly Eurocentric and cis-heteronormative literature.

When I was nineteen, I discovered spoken word poetry. Not the kind I had been doing at church, lying about myself, misrepresenting God. I found quenching. I found preaching that actually healed. In the years that followed, I found WordnSound. I found Modise Sekgothe, I found Mutle Mothibe and I found Gratitude Fisher. And then I found The Strivers Row; Zora Howard, Alyssia Harris, Jasmine Mans. It wasn’t until I found Warsan Shire, Vuyelwa Maluleka and Safia Elhillo that I found poetry.

The trouble, I have found, with spoken word, was that art business could not stand meaning. We always cry that they no longer make music like the blues, but we do not have soul like blues people anymore. We are not made with the sand that can take Nina Simone, take Etta James, take Muddy Walters and not bend. Yes, we can stand Adele, because she reminds us of fickle love. We can take Lana Del Rey because she has that kind of sexy sadness, does not call us to stop romanticizing melancholy. We can stand Kendrick Lamar, take Kanye’s insanity, call it irrefutable art. Take what glorified pop music that South African cool kids sell to us as hip-hop. We can take Thandiswa Mazwai’s faux consciousness masquerading as some depth, because spirit lets her sing meaning. This is what created the wave of poetry monopoly, pop-poetry, them and us, cool-poets family and the rest of us; the visitors, the lesser vessels when held up against punch lines and galaxy poems and half-baked political poetry, third-person rape poems, poverty poems by middle class “struggle artists” who have never slept on a barely half full cup of murky water, the self-proclaiming poetry gods and queens of the mic. The emotionally manipulative rhetoric that is the entire breath of Striver’s Row poetry. The Mandela screwed us narrative. The pun-infused prose. Narcissists incognito playing artists. Playing vessels but owning art. For too long there has been no one to tell the “art scene” people that art is no one’s mother, no one’s bitch, no one’s claim to fame, no one’s claim, no one’s horse, no one’s keep.

You cannot punch line poetry into emptiness. I was no longer looking for emptiness when I stopped attending poetry slams. I was no longer moved by “relatable” bullet point prose. I was not looking for galaxy imagery, or men-are-broken narratives. I was looking for poetry. I was looking for word from spirit. A good friend of mine said to try out CSP. So I did. And it has been refreshing. I cannot say that the slams are immune from rhetorical bullshit, but the judging is. The judging calls for poetry, and performance and consciousness. When Vusi says, “the breath of God is moving through this body, needing release”, “everything is energy”, I hear the old gospel of poetry that is not for fun or fame. I remember art as a spirit calling; I remember the cost of art. I wake up and travel to the workshops because I know how big art is, I know that you cannot master it until you know that you are only a pitcher. I know that poetry is not a toy, or a “vibe”, or a phase to pass through while at University. I know how far Vusi, Dr Thando, Dr Sarah and Thando dig within themselves to pour out the poetry.

I know that to whom art does not cost mental health, companionship, health, oblivion, unconsciousness, art is not present. I know that art is no one’s monopoly, no one’s close-knit clique, no one’s elitist club, no one’s personal politic. I know that art is god, and those who are not god while reading poems, are posers.

When the poets cook it is always to the pallet of the audience and March found everyone salivating. The MALANGABS had words roasting on CSP stage, and lil’Hassil could not believe the heaven that found his earth ablaze and overtaken with plenty, manna is an understatement, and I’ll tell you now; hell has a bone to pick with him since he done stole all the fire and ran. Did you see how skinny that boy is? I’m sure he can outrun lightning. Anyways, the taste of truth had us bowing and asking for more, as Katlego said “I know the devil. After all I was raised by my father.” A punch that left us gasping, just as our lungs were recovering the air, Sibulelo came and confessed that “There are things that we do not speak about at grandmother’s house” a hush fell like a cold cloud on Space.com as all braced themselves to hear this truth. But fire would not be outdone as it trickled and travelled up our spines offering us something to stand on and for the first time the audiences’ backbone shone when they chose her as a their winner. Like little children under the spell of fire light and taken to task by the sparkle in the sky while enchanted by nkgono’s tales CSP open slam poets had us eating in the palm of their hands. Who knew that Tanka’s, Haikus and short poems could win a slam? Apparently Rethabile did. And Busisiwe refused to go down without a fight, Gosh! You should have seen the MALANGABS. And for the first time ever, CSP had two winners. Three I’d say, she put up a good fight. By the way, did you know that CSP OPEN SLAM CHAMPIONS have been only women thus far?

Oh my WORD!! Then there was a battle of the Zulus in a face-off between Durban and Johannesburg. Honestly, I did not know which side to pick, I absolutely love these two QUEENS;

Thando Buthelezi and Thuli Zuma, the God in them bows to the God in me. And child, can these sisters speak?! They had a girl at the edge of her seat! Let’s talk about the DARK GIRL GOSPEL, Thando took us to church and at the altar of our sins had us see our skin without the lightening creams and painted a scene where the only makeup needed is of the mind. And boy; aren’t we sisters blind. Just as we were taking that in, Thuli sang a BLACK GIRL’S SONG sighing “because black is not a shadow you can outrun. And I don’t want to. And I didn’t always know that…” as in an intercession to prayer she lead a tune that whispered hope in these notes as she spoke “…the lilly of the field cannot undress and be some other dream. To be black without apologies is not a metaphor”, she mourned “because granddad was beautiful and proud and black man but always boy” hope rose again as she remembered “…granddad would not tip his head to that so he stopped wearing hats because sometimes you have to lose a part in order for the whole to remain black…” and in deed, how many parts do we keep losing to remain black?

Yet THULI doesn’t not stop singing… “loving what is lost is a kind of joy too and black makes the sweetest music even from the bitterest roots. BECAUSE BLACK DOES NOT LOSE HOPE …because black is the promise …as heaven’s own holy song …because black always finds a way home … BECAUSE I AM THE DREAM JUST NOW BEGUN …because I am black … I must be black. Everything BLACK” talk about black pride!!!!!

Now… who is Khutjo Green? That woman has got curves for days. Wow! *claps hands* My soul! Mmmhmm, Nkosi yam. Let’s talk about Billy Langa, now; the brother is fine and I don’t think he knows it. Hallelujah, Jesus must just return, le re D-Boy Mahlatsi o ne a hlapile ka lebese lefeng? And that suit he was wearing e ne re PAPA on him. Sho! Poetry will show you flames! MALANGABS ke ya o jwetsa, ka re even off the stage. These people aren’t just pretty faces, you know, e re ke o sebele; Khutjo is a Naledi award winner and Billy is a force to be reckoned with, these theatre practitioners had us bowing at their worship, the chemistry between them was not of this world and to simply write of their impromptu two-hander would be an injustice, Mosotho a re “monate ha o phuthelwe ka kobo” but technology allows that we freeze the moment and I have attached a video link that will do the justice needed. Ngwana ’mme ka re matlakamaleo.

If you are a lover of poetry or just somebody who enjoys new experiences then CSPSlam is for you. Your every sense will be fed. Moya wa hao ona o tlo tswa o le pensvol. Don’t take my word for it. Visit the links below, have a look at the awesomeness displayed in the images, o be o tla he, o tlo inwesa ka nkgo, in English we simply say; come see for yourself.